No, that’s not the new me. The new (just new, not improved) Rachel Dachel still looks and sounds the same as she always has. It’s funny; I still have the same laugh, the same walk, the same cadence to my speech. My clothes fit the same, my hair still loops, twirls and swirls in its same crazy curls. Every freckle on my face is exactly where I remember it being yesterday, last week, last month and for eternity.

I’m still left-handed. Well, yeah, I am pretty much ambidextrous, but just as I always have, I still favor my left hand and enjoy the struggle that is at times a manual can opener. I enjoy the same books, movies and music that I always have and I still drive the same car, go to the same office and have all of the same friends and family that I always have. So in essence, nothing has changed. But simultaneously, EVERYTHING has changed. I don’t know this new woman in my mirror.

While she may look, sound and behave exactly like me, she isn’t me. I know it doesn’t make sense to you because it makes absolutely no sense to me. I never in a million years would’ve thought that I’d wake up to find this stranger inhabiting my body and living my life right before my eyes. I never would’ve thought that it would be so foreign and traumatic. But it is.

You see, I got married at forty years old. I thought that marriage at forty meant that we were mature and more capable of making decisions from a logical and rational point of view. I thought it meant that we were blessed and fortunate to have found one another at a later point in life and that we would be more appreciative than our younger selves and counterparts of the joy and miracle of being in love and getting married.

I thought that after walking down the aisle and saying our vows I would breathe a sigh of relief and that the stress of caterers, florists, musicians and officiants would simply melt away and leave in their place those warm, glowing feelings of love and satisfaction. The knowledge that the government and the world now recognize us as a union, as a united front who will navigate and brave the world together hereafter was supposed to make me feel safe and more connected to my partner. And it does.

But nonetheless, I’m having an identity crisis. You see, before we got married, I agreed to take my husband’s last name. To some it may not seem like a big deal, but for me it was a major compromise; it was the entire reason that we didn’t get married sooner. It took me a long time to consent to take his last name. I attribute that in part to my independence, but largely to the fact that I, as the only female born in the family for three generations, had been quite celebrated when born into the name. And for forty years I have proudly, dutifully and lovingly carried the name that other women could only obtain through marriage. I was special; I was unique, an original.

In recent years, two little girls joined me in that exclusive club. My nieces and I bonded over the special sisterhood we shared that could be summed up in six simple letters. They delighted in the knowledge that I would one day pass down to them my monogrammed handkerchiefs and jewelry. They vowed that they would tell their daughters how I had climbed trees, jumped off of docks, bicycles and big wheels and even wrestled my brother and all of my cousins as the sole dash of sugar and spice in a sea of snakes, snails and puppy dog tails. I showed them every scar I EARNED in keeping up with the boys, and told the harrowing tales that accompanied each one. They laughed at my childhood photos that depicted me in ribbons and curls, soft satin sashes on flowing dresses—with Mercurochrome-soaked bandages on both knees. The perfect portraits of my struggle to fit in while being the only girl.

And somehow, I felt at peace with the fact that upon my death, they would take up the cause and carry on. But now, it feels as though that death is impending. I’ve checked for ravens and crows…thankfully none yet! But it still feels as though a part of me has died. Who knew? Who knew it would have this sort of effect on me? Perhaps if I were a giddy girl in her 20s it would be different? Maybe I’d be excitedly scribbling “Mrs.” followed by my first name and his last name—oh wait, that’s my last name now, huh?

Well there is no time for maybes and what ifs. I knew the job was dangerous when I took it so there is no point in being squeamish now. I’m saying goodbye to the old me and making my best effort to embrace the new me in her stead. It isn’t easy, but I know it is worth it. I’ll wish her well as I send her on her way, in what has turned out to be the bittersweet consequence of being married at forty.

Editor’s Note:

I knew I was truly fortunate when I found love again at 38 years old. After kissing more than my fair share of frogs and marrying a toad, I had resigned myself to the fact that there was no prince for me and that my happily ever after would not include a husband, 2.6 children who were conceived “old school style” and a white picket fence. I was perfectly alright with adoption and a condo, but I still really hoped to find a suitable mate who would one day become my husband.

Be careful what you wish for. I met a wonderful man in September 2008 and as unlikely as it sounds, just knew that we would one day be married from the very moment I met him. On our first date we took a photo together as a keepsake to show our future grandchildren. Sure, it sounds pretty corny and a bit absurd, but there was just something between us that we both felt but could not explain. Almost immediately friends and relatives began to inquire about our plans for the future and when we would marry, and we just smiled, chuckled and replied “we’re talking about it.”

Talking about it was working out just fine for me. It gave me the security of knowing I had a committed relationship with a loving man who wanted to build a life with me, without the anxiety of planning a glorified party where everyone would gawk at me as I stumbled down an aisle and hurled myself toward the object of my affection and obscenities would fly from my mouth as the church crumbled around me. We dated, exchanged keys, met one another’s families and began to build that life as a couple. Relatives would say “Where’s Corey?” before even greeting me if I dared to enter a family function without him. My favorite niece greeted him as “Uncle Corey” the first time she met him and asked if she could be in our wedding the second time.

Wedding? WEDDING?!?!Who said anything about a wedding? Sure, I had pictured myself marrying this wonderful man, but my visions were more along the lines of a date at city hall, a weekend in Vegas with a drive-thru ceremony or perhaps an isolated Caribbean beach at sunset. He knew that I was a bit gun-shy after the spectacular disaster that was my first marriage and still traumatized from the divorce. He also knew that I greatly dislike being the center of attention, so he never pressed the issue of marriage or a wedding. We just accepted that marriage was something on the horizon for us and I took it for granted that he wanted the same no fuss-no muss, low-key nuptials that I did.

I’m glad that I didn’t bet on that as a test of our compatibility. As it turns out, Corey wants a church wedding with flowers and attendants and a reception to follow. Who knew? After months of attempting to camouflage my wedding-related anxiety by simply not discussing it, we finally decided to sit down and make some decisions and move forward in our relationship. It was then that I had the revelation that as a never-before-married only child, Corey wanted to have a traditional wedding filled with family and close friends, complete with dark suit, wedding dress, bouquet and tiered cake. Really…Who knew??

Did he forget that I eloped the first time I got married? Had the terror I described of having to plan a wedding conveniently slipped his mind? Had he gone mad? No—none of the above. He simply loved and trusted me enough to be honest with me about what he truly wanted for himself, for our families and for me. I cannot fault him for that, not in a million years.

While I am definitely more interested in a marriage than a wedding, I am happy to agree to the latter in an effort to begin the former on the right foot. After all, isn’t marriage ultimately about compromise and partnership? Are my anxieties and neuroses more important than his hopes and desires? Definitely not. So, we’ve set a date and chosen a location; I’ll be 40 years old when we take our vows—two milestones in the same year. Now we have to choose colors and menus, flowers, attendants, etc. There’s also the matter of the dark suit and the wedding dress…I hope he shaves his legs.

So why is it so difficult to do the right thing when it comes to health, fitness and nutrition? Why do butter plus sugar and flour equal delicious? Why do restaurants serve portions for a single meal that obliterate your daily caloric, sodium and fat limits? Why is it easier to go to The Cheesecake Factory than the gym when the gym is not 5 miles away, nor is there a 45 minute wait?

Did I mention my trip to Best Buy last weekend? I went with my mother to Best Buy to purchase a Wii Fit so that she could have fun while improving her health and fitness. For those unfamiliar with Best Buy, it is a national chain of stores that sells electronics, computers, cameras, appliances, music, software, etc. They also sell batteries and blank CDs or DVDs near the register for those last-minute purchases, which I have always found quite helpful—it makes sense.

But I noticed something on Saturday that really annoyed me, something beyond the fact that the website said they had the Wii Fit in stock and they really didn’t. As I approached the register area, I noticed that the check-out aisles looked more like those of a supermarket or convenience store than an electronics store! Sure, there were batteries and gift cards, but they were located next to candy, chips, gum, popcorn and cookies. There was also a refrigerated case, filled to the brim with soda, sugary juice drinks, energy drinks and some too-little-too-late-to-make-up-for-the-rest-of-your-offerings-bottled water.

I know that since I’ve been making an effort to lose some weight I’ve become more conscious of the food around me. It is that heightened awareness that made me upset as I saw people mindlessly grabbing candy bars, chips and sodas as they finalized their purchases. I know that it was mindless because I found myself gravitating toward the refrigerators to grab a beverage, despite the fact that I was not thirsty and I had a bottle of water in the car.

Now I’m noticing the chocolate bars at the register in Macy’s, the complimentary wine, cheese and pastry at the hair salon, the free cookies at the car dealership, the mini-marts attached to gas stations and need I mention the availability of nachos, pizza, chicken tenders and shopping bags full of popcorn at movie theaters? I think that is the real reason for those fancy armrests that lift up to make “loveseat” seating. They know our big behinds can only fit in one seat for so much longer. They were even selling candy and cookies in the aisles of a Broadway theater last week during intermission; I won’t even begin to tell you about our weekly Costco trip and all of the samples. Suffice it to say that Corey had “the itis” by the time we got to the car.

Is it any wonder that so many of us are carrying so many extra pounds? I recognize the fact that I am accountable for what and how much I put into my mouth, but honestly, having unhealthy food available at every turn makes it quite a bit harder to do the right thing. Sure, I’ve got my apple and bottle of water in my purse to help fend off impulsive cravings, but visual cues are powerful and often the will is weak.

Thankfully, I made it through all of my errands and the entire weekend without succumbing to the siren song of fried, sugary, salty or starchy foods. I’ve lost 10 pounds in three weeks and I am feeling motivated to continue to embrace my healthier eating habits and strive to make them a permanent lifestyle change. I can imagine a fit little angel on my shoulder in the market repeating “Do the right thing! Do the right thing!” Great… Now I want a slice of Sal’s pizza. “Hey Mookie!”

Rachel Dachel is a freelance writer and editor, and creator and author of the blog Rachel-y Motivated Incidents. She’s a frequent contributor to Women at Forty.

As I continue my efforts to improve my health and fitness levels, I find myself relying heavily on my mother’s favorite maxim. Those six words are incredibly powerful when paired with steely resolve and an abundance of faith. After ten days of making an earnest effort to be mindful of my eating and exercise habits, the scale shows a seven pound weight loss! While seven pounds is only the tip of the iceberg (and the title of a Will Smith film), it is an accomplishment, nonetheless.

The funny thing is, I don’t find myself complaining much about the changes to my diet. There are so many delicious and healthy foods we can eat that it really is not that difficult! The hardest part about making my lifestyle change is rolling out of the bed in the morning to watch The Today Show while completing three miles on my treadmill. It takes a good deal of convincing myself to mount the machine, and the first five minutes brings countless repetitions of my mantra. But then, something happens and my exercise becomes less of a task or torture and morphs into a measure of my strength, my tenacity and my determination.

Where the first mile is marked with thoughts such as: “My left ankle hurts so maybe I’ll just do 1-1.5 miles” or “I really should do something with my hair today beyond a ponytail so I’ll just do 15 minutes…”, I find myself increasing the speed in mile 2 to make up for my lethargy in mile 1. By the time the odometer passes that second mile, you’d have to kill me to get me stop before it reaches mile 3 and my goal—and I’m not going down without a fight. I find that at the end of a good run I am confident and energized; I am proud of every bead of sweat on my body, despite the frantic need to wash it off.

As I get dressed for work and leave the house, striding with a more confident gait, I often reflect upon how many steps I have taken so far today and am reminded of Neil Armstrong’s famous first words on the moon: “That’s one small step for man; one giant leap for mankind.” My three-mile morning run isn’t groundbreaking or earth-shattering and unless I do it naked while singing the National Anthem through Times Square, it won’t garner any media attention. However, at 3.5 pounds weekly, a person could lose 14 pounds monthly or 168 pounds in a year. Those 3.5 pounds weekly can help lower blood pressure, strengthen the heart and elevate the spirit as well as improve mental clarity. Those 3.5 pounds per week will help me look and feel my best on my 40^th birthday. While motivating myself to get moving each morning may not be easy, it is most definitely worth doing! Along with the health benefits and increased confidence comes the renewed knowledge that I am worth it. Secure in this knowledge, my goal is in sight and it will likely be a piece of cake—or in my case, a piece of fruit!

Rachel Dachel is a freelance writer and editor, and creator and author of the blog Rachel-y Motivated Incidents. She’s a frequent contributor to the Women at Forty Project.